


A Fine Line

by lady_snow



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Stomach Ache
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-07-18 03:37:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7297894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_snow/pseuds/lady_snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a re-post from my old livejournal page. Two Chapters, work in progress, but I'm working on a third.</p><p>Set during Kooyong 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You should really come with us, man."

"I don't do soccer, Marcus. American, remember?"

"You'd like it."

"I'll break my leg or something."

"No fouling, like always."

"Right, like I'm going to trust Gonzales on that, I've seen that tackle on Nadal last year, ugly stuff."

"Fena isn't coming, practice. We need more people for the team. Marat said bring you."

"Who else is playing? I may come just to see you guys make fouling each other, should be hilarious, career-ending injuries are so much fun, after all."

"Ugly fouling won't help you, Federer's not coming, didn't answer his cell."

"Fuck you. And of course Roger's not coming. He's not stupid, that's why. I can't believe you even tried, the man doesn't even ski anymore."

"Andy."

Andy Roddick, sitting in the small, outdoor restaurant of the player's hotel, munching on his breakfast, turned to the direction Marcus gestured to and frowned.

Roger. Dressed in his Nike T shirt and a pair of shorts, with his racquet's bag slung over his shoulder, walked gingerly down the stairs. He arrived yesterday evening, Andy knew, but no one had seen him on the courts or at the Kooyong player's lounge, it was unlike him, Roger liked to mingle, especially among guys he knew well, as were most of the players taking part in the Kooyong exhibition tournament.

Marcus exchanged looks with Andy and frowned. "What's wrong with him?"

"He looks a little off, right?" 

Andy watched as Roger readjusted his bag on his shoulder, and looked around him, spotting them.

"Hi guys." 

Close by, Andy thought a little off was generous. At that time of year, after the off season and intense practice sessions in Dubai, Roger usually sported a healthy tan and radiated excited childlike energy. None of that was evident today, his face had an ashen complexion, and the slightly hunched way he was holding himself showed he was definitely suffering from something. 

"Rog. Everything okay?"

Roger grimaced but then flashed his usual cheeky grin. "Jet lag hit me a bit rough this time, so I decided to sleep in."

Next to him, Baghdatis snored with his wide smile."You always sleep in." He spoke in English for Andy benefit, Andy knew. Macros usually spoke French to Roger, as both spent time in French tennis academies.

"Guess so, I thought I'd go on the hunt for someone to hit with." He glanced at their tennis outfits. "Or have you already trained?" 

Marcus shook his head. "Yeah, earlier. I'm going to play some soccer, want to come?"

Roger's eyes lit up a little, but he smiled a wry smile. "Tempting, but no, thanks."

Marcus shrugged. "You need to have some fun sometimes, Roger."

Andy interjected. "He's just kind, Marcus, he wants you guys to keep your honor on the soccer court, at least. If not on the tennis court."

Roger smiled. "I seriously doubt that, I haven't played soccer in years. I just don't want to give you guys a chance to end my season right before it started."

Andy laughed loudly "See, I told you so."

Marcus rolled his eyes, got up, punched Roger's shoulder and bid his farewell.

"See you, Marcus, don't break your leg."

Roger sat down in front of Andy, wincing a little. "So, what about you, practiced yet?"

Andy's eyes narrowed, watching the careful way Roger took his seat. "Um, no... but I do have one scheduled for later... how come you got no one to train with?"

Roger shrugged. "Sevrin woke up with a tooth ache, he went to see a dentist, and I won't ask Mirka to hit in that heat, she has friends in town, I told her to go ahead."

Andy studied him. "I hate to say, you don't look fine... have you eaten?"

Roger visibly shuddered. "No, I'm not hungry, I just thought..." He rubbed his forehead anxiously. "I just want to hit a little...Jeez." He pressed a hand against his stomach, and bent forward a little.

Andy frowned in alarm. "Roger. What's wrong?"

Roger took a deep breath. "I-I don't know. Suddenly I don't feel too great. All queasy."

"You look green, man."

Roger grasped the edges of the table, and swallowed hard, unable to say anything.

Andy hurried to pour him a glass of water, Roger grasped the glass and emptied it, putting it back on the table with a bang, and pressed the back of his hand to his mouth.

"Need a bucket?"

Roger shook his head and swallowed hard, and managed a weak "no". He wiped at his mouth and got up. "I just... I'm going to get back to my room, I'm not feeling well."

Andy got up quickly and grasped Roger's forearm. "No shit. Come on, I'll walk you up."

Roger made a gesture as if to refuse, but then sigh and relented. "Thanks." He bent down to take his tennis bag and groaned, Andy yanked him back up and slung Roger's bag against his shoulder, shooting a glare at Roger. "Don't be an idiot, come on."

Roger took a deep breath and nodded, but moved away from Andy's reach and made his way up the stairs himself, and quickly.

Andy grabbed both bags and went after him, hurrying after Roger as he got into the elevator. Clicking on the 20th floor.

They weren't even a floor up when Roger doubled over and pressed his hand over his mouth. "Which floor is your room?" He choked.

"What?"

"Which floor is your room?!"

"Six, wh... fucking hell. O-kay. Hold it. H-O-L-D it."

He pressed six and put a hand on Roger's shoulder. "10 more seconds, Rog." He got his room card key out, making sure it is in his reach.

The elevator stopped, and Roger grabbed the key from Andy's hand and tore out of the elevator. Andy was barely out of it and Roger already in his room, by the time he got there, the only sounds were Roger's, throwing his guts out in the toilet.

Andy lowered the bags down on the floor, and paused at the bathroom door, unsure what he should do. When the sounds of retching didn't stop, he decided to chance it and walked in. Roger was kneeling on the floor, head over the toilet, grasping the seat. Andy knelt next to him. ''Jesus, what did you eat?''

Roger coughed and wiped his mouth. "I don't know, I don't think I ate anything weird. Some chicken yesterday, is all. I felt kinda weird at night, but I thought it was jet lag. Oh God."

He groaned, leaned over the toilet and threw up again, retching and heaving, trying to keep his longish hair behind his ears and out of the way.

Andy looked away, because yeah - he wasn't going to stare at whatever came out Roger's stomach. But he put his hand on the man's back in sympathy, patting a bit, even though the situation was as weird and awkward as it can possibly be. "You'd feel better once its all out."

Roger heaved one last time and remained leaning over the toilet, gasping for breath. Andy got up, wet a towel and handed it to Roger so he could wipe his face. Roger did, and then groggily reached out and closed the lid, pressing his forehand against the coolness of it. "And, Can you flush please?"

"Yeah, sure."

Andy flushed and went back to kneel next to Roger, who wasn't moving. "Want me to call Mirka, Luthi??"

Roger paused, then shook his head. "No," He said weakly, raising his head. "She rarely gets time for herself, she's visiting friends she hasn't seen in a long time, I don't want to call her just because I'm not feeling well and Sevrin is getting a double root canal, Pierre went with him, should take a while. Just my luck, huh?"

He pushed away from the toilet seat, and Andy noticed how much energy such a simple action was taking out of him. Roger leaned against the cold karmic bathroom wall, drew his knees closer to his body and rested his head on his knees. "I'm just going to sit here for a couple of minutes and then get back to my room, I'm really sorry about that. You are quite welcomed to go away and do your thing - I don't want to keep you from your training or..."

Andy waved it off with a smile "I'm willing to help a guy avoid puking in the middle of a public place every day, plus - I'm not leaving you in my room alone, you'd steal my racquets or something."

Roger didn't respond, no witty response, he didn't even raise his head.

Andy frowned. "Hey, come on, lets get you off the floor and on to the bed. You have no business sitting on the floor like that."

"I can go back to my room."

"You can't even sit up straight. Let me help you up."

Roger shook his head no, and then head dived toward the toilet again, knocked the lid open and threw up again. Andy sighed, moved closer this time and put his hand over Roger's clammy forehead, holding the strands of his his hair away from his face.

Roger put a hand on his stomach and groaned into the toilet. "Godddd....my stomach doing back flips."

"Still?"

Roger shrugged miserably. "I feel bad."

"Yeah, I can tell. Okay, stay here, then. I'll get you some tea, want tea?"

"You don't have to do this."

"Yeah, whatever. You need to fluids so you'll have something to throw up, man."

Roger closed the lid again, rested his head on it again and nodded. His lips felt perched and he could feel the bile burning in the back of his throat. Maybe tea wasn't a bad idea.

Andy came back with the tea a few moments later, Roger didn't move, he was still leaning his forehead against the lid, looking like a deflated rag doll. Andy crouched next to him and placed the tea on the lid. "Roger, drink."

Roger raised his head and pushed the cup to his lips, he managed a small gulp and pushed it away, shivering. "I feel like crap."

Andy shook his head and pushed the cup closer. "You look like crap, too. Finish this though."

Roger held on to the seat and raised his head, reaching weakly for the cup, it was amazing how a simple stomach flu, or food poisoning, or whatever was wrong with him could leave him so void of energy.

He felt feverish and shaky, the cup was twitching dangerously.

His hand was quickly supported by another, holding the glass to his lips, and there was another steadying hand around his shoulder. That was good, because he could lean back a little. He took a larger sip, and liked to imagine the storm in his stomach was settling somehow.

"You're good at this."  
"At what?"  
"Helping people throw up."

Andy smiled. "Done it for Mardy a couple of times, as he did for me... nothing like getting totally hammered after a bad loss."

"Not really."

"Don't you ever get drunk after losing, boy wonder?" He grinned. "Not that there had been many occasions."

Roger snorted weakly "You just wasn't around to see that, especially when I was younger. Drinking too much after losing doesn't really bring out the best part of me. I can't hold my liquor anyway, and I hate throwing up." He groaned and leaned over the toilet again, holding his stomach.

"Jeez, I can't believe you still have anything to throw up."

This time, he fully wrapped one hand around the man, feeling the twitching of his diaphragm with every heave. Roger retched violently, and then doubled over in obvious pain.

"Rog?"

"This hurts." He coughed. "I feel like I'm puking my insides." 

Andy pulled him backwards, this time to lean fully against him. Roger's eyes were closed, and he was panting heavily.

Andy gritted his teeth. "I'm calling someone, Roger. Tournament doctor, your girlfriend, both - don't care - but I'm not taking responsibility for you being like that."

"Don't, I think... I think I got all of it out now."

Andy sighed and handed him the wet towel. Roger wiped his face groggily and collapsed back against Andy.

"Tell me you didn't buy that chicken in the hotel restaurant?"

Roger laughed miserably. "No, we ate out."

"I sure hope it is food poisoning, because if this is some stomach flu, and I'm going to get it now, and fuck my preparation for Australia, I'm going to kill you."

Roger frowned. "I don't want you to get sick. Just help me back to my room, I probably reek of puke and I want to go to bed."

Andy rolled his eyes. "I was joking. Well, almost. Anyway, I'm not going to take you to your room like that, forget it."

He pulled Roger up, and helped him sit on the toilet seat. "Lean back... yeah, like that."

"Look, take a shower, or a bath - probably a better idea because you could sit, you'd feel a lot better. I'm going to call Mirka, and she's going to decide what to do with you. She's going to kill you if you won't call her. Hell, she's going to kill me."

Roger sighed, puffing his cheeks and blowing out air. "Yeah. Okay." He buried his face in his hands. "Shit."

He shook his head. "I wanted her to have a break and some fun with friends for a change. Off season was too short."

"Story of our lives. You know she's going to want to know."

"Yeah...nggh." He swayed dangerously on the seat, as another bout of dizziness struck.

Andy crossed the distance to him and grabbed him under his arms, hauling him up. "Lets get you horizontal. Shower can wait. "

Roger brushed away his hands. "I have to wash my mouth first."

Andy supported him to the sink, keeping a steadying hand around him as Roger used his mouth wash, and then half dragged him to the bedroom. Reaching the bed, Roger let himself collapse on it. He lied on his back, legs sticking over the edge of the bed, looking ashen and empathic. He was awake, Andy could tell, but it was obvious he didn't have the energy to speak.

Andy tsked and moved to pull Roger's legs onto the bed, taking off his shoes and socks, and covered him with the blanket. He touched his shoulder. "Hey. Rog? Are you with me?"

Roger swallowed, but didn't open your eyes. "Yeah."

"What are you feeling?"

Roger groaned and turned to lie on his side. "Oh. Like someone is practicing his serve inside my stomach."

Andy smiled, leave it to Roger to come up with the tennis analogy. "How he's doing?"

"He's double faulting a lot..Jesus." Roger sucked in air, and drew his knees to his stomach, and pulled the blanket over his head, curling in a fetal position.

Andy rubbed his forehead agitatedly, he was getting worried. He climbed on the bed to sit next to him, took out his cell and dialed Mirka. But there was no reply. He left a short message on her voice mail detailing in the situation, asking her to call back. "Rog, she's not answering, probably in a parking lot, or a place without reception."

Roger sucked in a breath, and didn't reply, burrowing his head into the pillow. Andy could feel the dejection in his body, who started shivering uncontrollably. He leaned over and rubbed the man's back. "Hey, tell me what I can do for you."

"Kill me."

Andy smiled. "Other than that."

Roger's teeth were chattering. "Th-this."

Andy frowned, confused, and stopped rubbing his back. "What?"

Roger was quiet for a minute, and then whispered, clearly embarrassed. "Nothing."

Andy didn't respond. Instead, he reached to touch the Swiss' forehead with the back of his hand. "Yeah, you're burning up, want something for fever? You'd feel better, even if it won't settle your stomach."

Roger got his head from out of the blankets. "What is it?"

"It's cleared, trust me. It's just an over the counter, approved ATP stuff"

Roger considered and then nodded weakly. "Yeah, thanks."

Andy went to his bag to get the pills out, as well with a glass of water. He sat next to Roger and helped him sit down, gathering him close and looping a hand across his back. Roger was shaking from head to toe, and Andy had to help him hold the glass to his lips. Roger took the pills, drank his water and collapsed back limply against Andy, eyes closed.

Wordlessly, Andy wrapped the Swiss tighter in the blanket, and started rubbing his arms and shoulders. "That?"

Roger didn't have to ask what. He bit his lip. "Yeah. Thanks, you really don't ha..."

Andy raised his hand. "Look, lets put a stop to this right now. I get this is a little awkward, but you're sick as a dog, I can't leave you alone in here, cause you'll end up puking all over my room, and yet I feel like a heartless bastard watching you shivering on my bed, I'd do that for any one of my friends and I consider you one of them, even though I really hate you sometimes. So, let me help you now, and I promise to never mention it again afterwards, deal?"

Roger fell quiet for a moment, and then mouthed. "Deal." Andy could tell there was a ghost of a smile on his lips at that.

Andy smirked. "Could have been worse."

Roger winced. "Yes, could have happened during Australia."

"No, it could have been Djokovic who found you."

Roger snorted, and mumbled. "I think I would have missed the toilet and gone for his shoes..."

Andy choked on his laughter and whispered in Roger's ear. "I'd fucking pay to see that, we can call him, I'm pretty sure he's in Australia already."

Roger smiled, then winced, sucking in air and doubled over, groaning, as another wave of nausea struck. "Shit..." 

Wrapped in the sheet, he tried to get off the bed but only managed to roll on his side and lean over the edge. Andy recognized his distress, leaped over him to reach for a vase, and got it over just in time for Roger to throw up in it.

"Easy, easy now." He reached out to support Roger's forehand with one hand, and held the vase up to him in the other. "Lets try and aim for the vase."

Roger did, he coughed and spat and swore in Swiss German, and then let his head drop over the side of the bed, panting. The muscles in his upper stomach spasming and twitching from the constant irritation.

Andy lowered the vase down carefully on the floor, keeping it within reach, and moved to the small kitchen, wetting two towels as as well as a bottle of coke from the fridge, along with a straw.

He knelt next to Roger, who hasn't moved an inch, head still hanging down from the side of the bed, moist curls stuck to his sweat-soaked hair, and wiped his face and mouth with the towel.

Roger hasn't moved, or talked. So exhausted he was by the constant and violent retching. Andy held the bottle with the straw to his lips. "Hey, sip. It's coke, it would help settle your stomach, at least that's what my mother used to give me when I threw up."

Roger shook his head in protest. "Can't, I'll get sick."

"Fucking drink, all of it, or I'm calling the tournament doctor now, and trust me, he'll stick an IV in you, you're getting dehydrated."

Roger swallowed, grimaced, and started sipping, taking a small gulp each time.

Eventually he was done, he allowed his head drop back on the bed, closing his eyes, mumbling something incoherent in Swiss German, whimpers that suggested growing discomfort. 

Andy pulled him a little closer to the middle of the bed, covered him in the blanket and looked at him helplessly, glancing at his watch. Where WAS the rest of his team?

Roger said something again, or asked for something, but Andy didn't catch a word. 

"Roger, Rog. English. I can't understand you."

Roger blinked his lips, and tried to pull himself out of the haze. "Wanna sit, feel sicker lying down."

Andy sighed, and helped Roger up. "Better?"

Roger's frown deepened, and he shook his head, groaning. "Andy, can you just go?"

Andy stared. "Go?"

Roger leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his midsection, pressing down. "I -I feel horrible, and...." He choked out. "Would be easier to feel sorry for myself with you not here."  
Andy grimaced. "I'm not leaving you alone so sick. I'd probably be feeling the same in your shoes, and want whoever it was gone to I could sit here and feel sorry for myself, but I'm not going anywhere."

Roger just groaned into his hands, curled up on the bed, rocking back and forth. Andy sighed, Roger obviously decided that ignoring him was a better way to go about dealing with his illness. He really couldn't blame him, but it was down right agonizing to see him like that.

He put a hand on Roger's back "Roger, let me try something, okay?"

Roger sniffed into his hands "What, reach inside and pull my insides out? If you can, that would be great."  
Andy snorted into his shoulder. "The fantasy of every ATP player, within my grasp." At Roger's pained expression, he tsked, and squeezed Roger's shoulder. "That bad, huh?"

Roger nodded abruptly, and Andy glanced at him sympathetically and touched his forehand with the back of his hand. "You're burning up. I think you threw up that pill I gave you, I want to go and get you another."

Roger groaned. "Yes, please."

"I'll be right back."

Roger curled on the bed, pulling the pillow tight against him as Andy got up and went to get another pill, and a new glass of water.

He was back in a flash, sat on the bed and pulled Roger against him again, handing him the glass. "Take the pill, and empty the glass. If you still can't keep it down, and if you're still in so much pain in 10 minutes, I WILL be calling the doctor."

Roger took the pill, drank the water and then bent forward, clutching his abdomen.

Tentatively, Andy moved around Roger and rested one hand against Roger's upper stomach, watching for Roger's reaction. Roger shuddered, and shielded his face in his hands, but didn't try to push Andy away, it was quite obvious he did not have the strength nor actual desire to do so.

Andy let out out a slightly relieved breath, a part of wondered whether Roger was going to think he had lost his mind and shake off his hand, but Roger did nothing like that.

He remained there frozen, pained nervousness etched across his face. "Wh-what are you doing?"

"My mom used to do that for me," He started a slow rub. "When I was little and had an upset tummy." Underneath his hand, Roger was sweaty and trembling, and Andy could sense how unsettled his stomach was. "Maybe that would help."  
Roger shook his head, tense and tight, and bent down, breath coming out in wet, ragged moans. "Andy..I"   
Andy stopped his hand, easing the pressure. "Am I hurting you?"  
Roger shook his head abruptly. "God," He gulped. "No." He choked out. "It feels good, it's just... "

Andy kept his voice calm and even. "I know. Say stop, and I will - but I have a feeling it would make you feel better, so..." He shrugged. "Don't fight me, okay? Don't be stubborn, this isn't a match you have to win, there are no prizes for suffering quietly."

Roger wiped at his face with the back of his hand, and Andy could tell there were suffocated tears of pain at the end of that. "It's just that- I'm just dying here, is all. Got so bad in the last 5 minutes or so." He gnashed his teeth. "Oh God."

"Yeah, I know. Food poisoning would do that to you." Andy fought the urge to pull him closer. Actually, Roger's pain was beginning to freak him out. "Rog. Breath. Breath." He rubbed deeper now, long circular motions. Roger gave in to his pain, and arched shamelessly into Andy's touch, obviously getting relief from the pressure. "God, just..."

Andy pulled him slightly against him, and "Shh, I'm not stopping... but relax your legs. Good. Like that. "  
He applied some more pressure now, moving in firm circles. Roger breath came out in shuddering pants as he fought against the pain, and his fingers dug deep into Andy's hand. Andy kept his tough firm and sure, holding the other man close. 

He tried to get over the weirdness of it, touching another guy like that, feeling hairs and sweat and the ripping muscles of his abdomen against his hand. There was just nothing about Roger that even remotely felt familiar under his touch, he was all sinewy muscles, strong features and hairy chest.

After several moments, Roger swallowed hard. "Can you, um...tell me something?"

"Tell you something?" He smiled. "Like a story?"

Roger pleaded. "Anything. Just... I need distraction. Please."

Andy complemented. "Okay. I have a topic, actually. Something that's been bothering me." He rubbed at his forehead. "But..I'm probably shouldn't tell you this."

Roger groaned. "Nothing about today is normal. Just talk."

"I think Jimmy is about to drop me.."

Roger fell quiet. "I don't believe that." He said softly. "I thought things were working out."

Andy said shortly. "Lets just say that the novelty has worn off, and I better show some results beyond quarter finals in slams, we had clear goals and..." His voice trailed off. "forget it. I can't believe I'm talking about this to you." He took his hands off Roger and rubbed at his eyes.

Suddenly, the entire thing felt so uncomfortable. The reason he lost in the USO as well as the Masters cup was lying in his arms, sick and in pain, in what was one of the most intimate moment he ever had with a guy, not including Mardy, whom he had seen in some really bad situations before.

But Roger wasn't Mardy, who was practically a brother to him. He was the competition, his tormentor, but also one of the greatest guys he had the pleasure of meeting - if he was playing baseball instead of Tennis, that is. And as much as he didn't want to admit it, the feeling of him lying in his arms was...bizarre, but almost not in a bad way, which was even more confusing.

Roger ignored his pause and simply carried on, and asked softly. "Do you want to keep working with him?"

Andy sighed and shrugged. "Yeah... but right now it maybe adding to the pressure, and I don't want to work with a frustrated coach."

Roger re-adjusted his head against Andy's shoulder. "No, you don't. I'm not sure what I can tell you, you know me, I've gone solo for a long time and it felt good - but I've also made some mistakes." He suddenly tensed, his body going rigid in Andy's arms as he fought against the sickness and fatigue.

Andy reached for the wet towel and wiped the sweat off Roger's forehead. "Okay, don't speak. The idea was that I talk, no? Try to sleep." He gulped. "Do you want me to continue?"

Roger gave a little abrupt nod, grateful that he didn't have to ask for it. Andy hand dove under the covers again, going back to the slow rubbing. Roger let out a soft sigh, and Andy shivered, forcing himself to continue at the same slow pace, fighting the urge to sink his fingers into the soft hair on Roger's belly. He felt his mouth drying. Fuck this, what the hell was WRONG with him?

Roger didn't seem to notice anything weird about Andy's reaction, after his initial reluctance, Andy's words of reassurance seemed to have eased his nervousness about that type of closeness, and submitted to Andy's comforting touch greedily, looking for anything to relieve his discomfort.

"I just wanted to tell you.." Roger struggled to speak as weariness took over. "I real-really dropped the ball with Tony... I should ha--should have communicated my thoughts more clearly to him. Tal-talk to the guy, especially 'cause he's Connors, you know. You don't want it to... to end badly." His voice faded away as he spoke, eyes sinking shut, his body relaxing against Andy.

Andy glanced down at Roger, hoping the man was finally falling asleep. "Rog?"

Roger mumbled something, and placed his palm against the back of Andy's hand, giving his hand a firm squeeze. Andy recognized the gratitude in the gesture, and put his other hand on top of Roger's. "You welcome." He whispered. "Sleep."

Slowly, Andy could see Roger's breathes evening as he finally slipped into an uneasy sleep. The frown on his forehead hasn't gone away, and there was no doubt he wasn't feeling well, but at least he was resting.

Andy let out a deep sigh, or as deep as he could with a weight of a grown man pressing against his diaphragm, and studied the man in his arms.

Roger was probably not the best looking guy around the locker room, some players were better built, his nose was too big, his eyes too deep set, but he had the most presence then the rest of them combined, he commanded a room as easily as he did a tennis court. Whether it was the confidence of a true winner, or just a natural born trait he couldn't say. He was never a player, never hung with the groupies, like Marat or Feli, or even himself. Andy grinned to himself. The thought of Roger picking up groupies during a tournament was amusing, to say the least. He's been with Mirka since as long as almost anyone on tour could remember, and he was as fiercely loyal to her as she's been to him. There had been some talks amongst the guys, that thought he could do better, a skinnier, prettier girl.

And then a year ago, an up and coming Novak Djokovic was sharing a similar sentiment with a few of the other guys when Roger walked in the locker room in and caught the tail end of it. The lockeroom turned as quiet as a grave yard, and the expression on Roger's face would have curdled milk. Two of the other guys, a French Junior and one of the lower-ranked Serbs players escaped the lockeroom the moment Roger showed up. No one could really make out what he told Djokovic as he stood in front of him, hands crossed against his chest, looking more grave and serious than Andy had ever seen him. He spoke quietly, yet pointedly, acid dripping from his voice. Eventually Novak hung his head, and tried to apologize in his usual dramatic way. Roger raised his hand, he didn't want to hear it, and told Novak to go away, which he did. No one in the locker room looked at him as he left. 

Roger stood in front of the locker for a minute, and then turned around to face those brave enough to remain in the locker room. "Can't believe no one saw fit to shut him up." The disappointment was etched clearly on his face. He shook his head, shrugged and walked out of the locker room. Andy grabbed his arm on the way out. "Roger, no one had time to react, you walked in as he was speaking."

Roger turned to Andy, the hurt and anger on his face unmistakable. "I know what the guys are saying. World number one, etc, etc. He should be sleeping with a babe slash underwear model slash whatever. She hears the talks too, you know." He shook his head in clear disgust, choking on his emotions. "You should all be so lucky." He yanked his arm from Andy's grip and got out of the lockeroom, leaving dead silence in his wake.

Later on in the week, as Andy was sitting alone in the player lounge with his magazine, Roger walked in. Fresh from his shower and a 3 set win over Djokovic. He sat down with a soft sigh. Andy smiled at him. "Great match, easy win." Roger didn't smile. "Wish it was a triple bagel." Andy shrugged. "He's too good for that." At the expression on Roger's face, he raised an eyebrow. "You know its true. He's going to get even better, yet another guy nipping on our old heels." He sighed. "He's also 19 years old, Roger. He'll grow up. Eventually."

"I'll have to see it to believe it, from what I've seen of him..." He shook his head in disgust.

He looked up to Andy, and sighed. "I wanted to apologize for... you were not the guy whose head I should have bitten off. I know you would have said something."

"Don't mention it." Andy said. He offered Roger his hand, Roger shook it firmly. "Good luck with your match today." He patted Andy on the back and stalked away back inside the building.

The friendly exchange didn't stop Roger from handing him a worse beat-down than the one he laid on Novak a few days later, but he was happy to know there was no hard feelings involved in it, just Roger on a hot day. A really hot day. Damn him.

He was extra focused through the entire tournament, and Andy wondered whether it was the anger that made the Swiss more lethal than usual.

Roger twitching in his arms knocked Andy out of his reverie. The Swiss moaned softly and said something in Swiss German. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead, he was flushed and moved his head restlessly against Andy. Moving his head against Andy's chest. Goddamn it, where the hell was Mirka? It's been hours since he called. 

Enough was enough, he should have called the doctor hours ago. Gently, he rolled Roger away from him and on to the bed. Roger didn't wake up. Instead, he curled up in a ball of misery. Andy covered him carefully, and got out of the bed. He was reaching for the phone when there was a knock on the door, a frantic knock. Andy rolled his eyes and opened the door. Mirka was standing there, looking anxious and worried. Andy clenched his jaw. "It's about time." He moved out of the door to let her in. "Shhh. He's asleep."

Mirka hurried into the room, and stopped cold at the sight of Roger on the bed, she turned to Andy, eyes as big as saucers. Looking at her distraught expression, the anger drained out of Andy. He put his finger on his lips, took her hand gently and led her into the corner of the room. "My cellphone isn't working." She whispered in her accented English. "The call didn't go through. What happened? Where's Pierre? Sevrin?"

"Roger said something about a root canal?"

Mirka bit her lip. "I thought that..." She muttered something in Swiss German Andy didn't get and then asked, looking toward the bed. "What's wrong with him?"

Andy sighed. "I don't know, he caught something. Food poisoning, stomach flu. Something like that. He puked his guts out, fever, stomach pains. I was just about to call the tournament doctor when I saw you guys weren't coming back, he didn't want me to call earlier, I suspect he was waiting for one of you. He didn't really want me to call you either, but at the end he was feeling pretty miserable."

Mirka groaned and buried her face in her hands, shaking her head. "Oh Rogi..." She moved toward the bed and sat on the edge, and caressed Roger's cheek softly with her thumb. Andy stood there and looked on as she leaned down to kiss his forehead. Feeling her touch, Roger woke from his restless sleep. He tilted his face and opened his eyes groggily, mumbled something Andy couldn't quite hear, and buried his face on Mirka's thigh. Mirka whispered something to him, running her fingers through the sweaty hairs at the back of his neck with the familiar and comforting touch of a long-time spouse. Roger let out a long sigh, and wrapped his arms around her waist, burrowing deeper into her.

Mirka raised her eyes to meet Andy, who was watching silently from the entrance, and flushed. Andy fidgeted, shifting his weight uneasily from leg to leg. "Okay, you're here. I'm going to get out of here, leave you to play the nurse, better you than me."

Head in Mirka's lap, Roger turned to Andy. He opened his eyes to look at Andy. "You did fine." He said softly. Andy shivered, and then shook his head. "Okay then, I'll be off."

Mirka looked around and then back at Andy. "It's your room."

Andy waved his hand. "Never mind that, stay here for a while, CALL the doctor, even if he says no." Roger tightened his arms around Mirka. "Don't need anything now."

Mirka shook her head fondly at Roger and gave Andy the eye roll of partners in crime. "Go, I'll stay with Mr. grumpy here."

They both looked at Roger, expecting a response, but he didn't say anything. Instead, his lips tightened to a white line and he held on to Mirka tighter. The smile disappeared from Mirka's face. "Roger?"

Andy didn't know what Roger said in Swiss German, but he recognized that groan. He sighed in frustration. "Enough, enough with that shit. Call the tournament doctor. He's been like that most of the evening."

Mirka sighed and nodded. "I'll make the call - probably won't take him long to get here."

Andy rolled his eyes and said wryly. "Just tell him gently, you don't want to cause a massive panic." He debated with himself, then knelt next to Roger. "Rog, I'm going to go." Roger opened his eyes. "Andy..I..I really owe you one." His expression was serious and somber. "I mean it. You...you didn't have to do all that."

Andy wanted to smirk and say something like. 'I'm willing to collect in two weeks time' or 'may hold you to it', but all he managed to say was. "Just feel better." Roger nodded, and Andy squeezed his shoulder and got up, grabbed his bags and walked out of the room.

Out in the hall, Andy leaned against the door and took a deep breath. He shook his head. "Get those thoughts out of your head, Roddick. Now." He was straight, he's always been straight. He never even looked at another guy before. Roger Federer was the subject of his envy, his obsession at times, at other times his friendship. Never his desire. The thought itself was too absurd to consider. Resolutely, he walked toward the elevator, determined to keep his distance from Roger Federer for the remainder of the tournament. But as he got into the elevator, all he could think about was the feel of him, warm and pliant underneath his hand. He banged his head against the mirror inside the elevator. It just wasn't going to be that easy.


	2. Chapter 2

Get there get there get there-oh-oh-oh. Yeah, comeon. Ah Andy, you fucking idiot.

“FUCK!” He didn’t smash his racquet, it was practice after all, but his ball should have really found the court.

Safin smirked as he watched Andy’s little bunt back going wide after he scrambled to get to Marat’s clever little drop-shot. “7:5, I win.”

“Thanks, man. Didn’t notice that.”

He took a drink from his water bottle. Now THAT was a crappy practice set. “Do you want another go? my legs feel fresh.”

Safin took his shirt off, to the whistling of the crowd “No, I feel good right now, we play another set – maybe I don’t anymore.”

“Right.” Andy glanced at Marat as the man turned to check his cell for texts. He was relieved to know that the sight of him shirtless did absolutely nothing to him, in spite what he would admit was a nice body and a bad boy good looks. He’s seen Marat in different states of nakedness at least a million times and it didn’t feel any weirder now than it was a week ago, before that entire incident with Roger.

He tried not to think about it, shrug it off as a one-off, confused wires in his brain, or maybe that’s how physical closeness between two people sometimes worked, regardless of gender.

He hasn’t seen Roger since. The rumor around was that he had a tough time shaking off his virus, and pretty much stayed in his room, resting, at the direct orders of his team and doctors.

Safin straightened with a sigh and scouted the crowd. “See that girl there?”

Andy looked. A pretty red-head, large boobs, too short of a skirt to wear to watch tennis, unless you’re a player. To sum it up, the trashy look Marat was so fond of. “What about her?”

“I have her room number.”

“Shocking, why are you telling me? I already know you can score.”

Safin rolled his eyes good naturally at him. “Her blond friend, she’s into you.”

Andy glanced at the young woman, twenties. Very early twenties. Jeans, simple white top. Dirty blond hair. Nice smile and she didn’t look trashy. “Maybe, I’m sort of dating someone, you know He ignored the dismissing expression on Marat's face.

 

Actually, he wasn’t so sure he was seeing anyone. He and Brooklyn have been fighting for a couple of days now, over the phone. She found it difficult to deal with him being on tour all the time, and told him she wanted a break for a while. For some reason, he couldn’t muster up any real concern about it. Maybe what he needed was a night of casual sex, yeah - to get Brooklyn out of his mind. Yeah. For that. Brooklyn.

 

And the girl was hot. Small, perky breasts, the kind that would fit right into his…”

He swallowed. “Um, yeah, why not. I’m not going on a double date with you though.”

Marat looked at him as if he grew another head. “You think I want you around during my date?”

Andy laughed. “Right. Got her number?”

Marat discreetly showed him the little piece of paper, which Andy pocketed with a smirk.

He spent a little time signing autographs for the fans, and ended up approaching the girl, who apparently had the good sense not to act like a total fangirl.

“Hi.”

The girl, a native aussie, judging by the accent, flushed. “Hi. Um. My friend gave Safin my phone number. I’m…”

Andy quirked an eyebrow. “Oh. So, you’re not interested?”

The girl flushed further. “No, um. It’s just that – I don’t do those things.”

“Hit on guys?”

The girl smiled. “Hit on tennis players like a crazy fan.”

Up close, the girl was even more attractive. She had an athletic build, rather than the anorexic starvation look which he didn’t care for all that much, and a pretty smile. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“A crazy fan.”

The girl smiled. “I’m a tennis fan, I try not to be crazy.”

"Yeah? Who is your favorite player?" He had no idea what possessed him to ask the poor girl that question.

The girl was startled. "Um, ah. I'm an Aussie, so.." As if that explained everything.

Andy laughed. "Lleyton, right? That's okay, you don't have to say its me" The patriotic zeal he didn't mind, and he liked the honesty - he was just pleased she didn't say Roger.

He leaned over the separation fence. “You do sports?”

The girl laughed. “I’m in my collage swimming team, so I guess you can say I do sports.”

He nodded approvingly and flashed her a grin. “So, I need to train some more, but - you want to do something tonight? I have a match tomorrow, so…”

The girl nodded, understandingly. ”Sure. Um, I assume my friend already gave you my number.”

“I have it, catch you later?”

“Yeah, I’m going to watch some of today’s matches.”

“Have fun then.”

 

He bid the girl goodbye and grabbed his bags, and turned to sign to a few kids before leaving the court. On the court, Nicole Vadisova was practicing hard, while Marat divided his attention between his new lady friend and watching her. He raised his eyes to Andy and signaled him a none-discreet thumbs up. Andy rolled his eyes, Marat had a one track mind, and that track just wasn’t on tennis anymore.

 

As he made his way around the courts, he noticed the gates to the little practice court on the far right was open. The organizers made sure one no one ever used it, because the seats around the court were being repaired, therefore dangerous for spectators to sit on.

Curious, he peeked inside.

 

Roger. By himself, working on his serve from the looks of things. No fans or team were visible around, no one to watch the world number one train, no one to watch Andy watching him.

 

He trained shirtless, like he sometimes did, but not too often. It wasn’t difficult to notice he lost a couple of pounds, small wonder – after what he's been through.

He had his hat on, rather than his customary Banana, and his body was already glistening from sweat under the merciless sun. Watching him, Andy realized his serve looked good, very good even. He was going for huge serves and making them.

 

Andy observed the defined back arch for a nasty kicker down the T, and then another one, as if he wasn’t happy with the first. Then came a fault, followed by a scary serve out wide. It went on and on, a rather scary serving exhibition.

 

But then he was out of balls, and he started walking around the court in order to collect them. He rolled the balls to the net, and started picking them up there, bending down to pile them up on his racquet. He didn’t even finish picking up half the balls before he straightened up with a breathless sigh, and leaned over the net,.

 

He left the balls on the court, and walked to the bench and dropped down heavily to sit, stretching his legs in front of him. Andy could see his eyes were closed as he reached for his bottle and gulped down the contents.

 

Frowning, Andy walked into the court, and rolled a stray ball which was tucked right next to the gate toward the net. Roger opened his eyes and tensed, then visibly relaxed when he realized who the visitor was. “Hi.”

Andy walked over to him, noticing he was absolutely dripping with sweat in a way he rarely was. “Hi. What are you doing here by yourself?”

Roger flushed. “Um. Don't tell on me." He smiled. "I’m only suppose to start hitting tomorrow, maybe the day afterwards, but I was getting a little restless sitting in the hotel room.”

“Your serve looks crisp from here.”

Roger quirked a brow. "Spying on the competition?" He grinned slightly.

Andy smiled wryly, sitting down."I have some vague recollection of how you play, I rather spy on the youngsters."

"Really? Too many of them to keep track, in my opinion."

"Too many guys out there I know shit about." Andy looked around, then at Roger. "Do need some help picking up those balls? You look wiped.”

Roger tensed. “No, I’ll pick them up myself in a moment.”

He looked at Andy’s sweaty hair. “Finished practice?”

“Yes, earlier. So, how are you?”

“Not perfect, but a lot better, getting my strength back.” Andy didn’t think he was completely truthful, but he didn’t expect him to admit it, tennis players never did, and Roger least of all. But for some reason, the lie stung this time.

“Right.”

Roger ignored his tone of voice. “Actually, I was wondering whether you want to hit for a bit.”

Andy frowned. He knew Roger would take offense, but he was never one to mince words. “Rog, I don’t want to piss you off or anything, but I’ve seen..” He sighed. “Look, you don’t look like you can run around just yet, and I bet your team doesn’t think so either, otherwise Luthi would be here, hitting with you.”

He expected Roger to glower at him, but instead the man just rubbed at his forehead, and didn’t try to deny it. “I want to see how I’m holding up, I need some preparation for Australia, for God’s sake. Three days won’t cut it.”

Andy fidgeted in his seat. “Why ask me? hit with Luthi.”

Roger made a frustrated sound. “He and Pierre think I should wait another day or two and I disagree, and-look.” His voice hardened as he stopped himself. “I don’t want to explain why I’m not asking him, I’m asking YOU to hit with me, I want a good work out. Yes or no, I’m not going to beg, I can ask anyone, they'd all say yes."

"Well, I think you're being an idiot, but what do I know?"

Roger didn't blink. "I take that's a yes?"

Andy fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Yeah."

Roger stood up, grabbed his racquet, and went to pick up the rest of the balls. Andy let him do that himself, as any attempt to help would be badly received.

 

As Roger stood at the baseline, Andy realized with a jolt this was the first time they ever practiced with each other, as Roger very rarely practiced with anyone he expected to meet the second weekend of a Slam final. They were also completely alone, no one realized they were there. He could hear the voices of people around the grounds, but they were on a deserted court. He didn’t think he ever played with Roger with less than a couple of thousands people watching – and it made the scene feel completely foreign and bizarre, and strangely intimate.

Intimate. Shit. Intimacy was exactly the state he was planning to avoid with Roger, and planning to get with that girl…oh fuck. He didn’t even ask for her name. He shook himself out of the reverie, and focused on the task at hand.

 

They started light, hitting casual ground strokes. Roger’s timing wasn’t bad, considering. Some forehands, some backhands, not straining themselves or each other. Roger upped the pace first. He ran around a backhand to send a blistering forehand winner zooming past Andy, while giving him one of the dark, blazing looks Andy have seen one too many times. It was Roger's high and mighty 'dare you challenge me' look.”

Alrighty then, Roger, lets see how much power you have in those legs.

“We’re playing a set?” He called, upping the stakes.

“Yeah, serve.”

So he served. It wasn’t a particularly hard serve. They had no speed gun, but Andy could usually tell. Roger would normally have no problems putting it back. He chipped it back with some difficulty, giving Andy a short ball, which Andy used to do what Roger hated most, pick on his backhand. He hit the forehand and it found the line, pushing Roger deep behind his baseline. He barely got there in time to get it back, high above the net. Andy went for another forehand, another one to Roger’s backhand. Roger was slow to react, and when he did, his ball dropped short enough for Andy to be aggressive with his forehand.

 

And so they played, Andy wasn’t putting his all into it, first because it was practice, and because Roger was clearly a step and a half slower than usual. He served well himself though, and it kept him in the set, and he made some great shots, as usual, but he was sweaty, breathing hard, and agitated, commentating every unforced error in Swiss German under his breath. But then again, Roger tended to be a little more vocal in practice, without the crowds watching. God, it was hot out there. Ah-Oh-Fuck. Andy ran as a dropper Roger tried from the baseline caught him unprepared, he made the distance, and could only bunt the ball back. Roger never quite made it to the short slice, he looked like his feet were glued to the floor as he scowled at Andy.

Andy kinda enjoyed that.

 

30 minutes later, Andy was leading 5:4, with Roger serving at 15 all. Roger served, a second serve. Andy stepped up the court to take it early, and got it back to Roger’s backhand. Roger, surprised with the pace of the return, chipped the backhand back, Andy went for the forehand winner, Roger anticipated in time, and tried to run down the ball, meaning, Andy guessed, to hit a forehand on the run down the line. He got there late, his ball hit the frame and sailed miles out, and unable to break the momentum of his run, Roger semi-crashed against the side fence, breaking with his hands as he dropped his racquet to avoid an injury. He let out a loud ‘nein!’ in Swiss German, and turned around with an expression of utter disgust, breathless.

 

Andy, not quite sure what he should do, paused at the net, expecting Roger to get back right into it. And for a moment, he thought Roger would. He straightened and shook his head in that little gesture of his, and scowled, muttering something to himself, and advanced toward Andy. It was almost as if Andy knew it was coming when he watched Roger wobble, clearly dizzy .Andy stepped over the net and was there in two seconds, he grabbed his arm to stabilize him. “Woah. Okay. Practice over, man, Lets go sit."

Roger shook his hands away, but didn't argue as he sulked to the bench, looking very upset as he sat down, removed his hat and wiped the sweat off his forehead and upper lip, still breathless. He glanced at Andy. “I’m not going to pass out, don’t look so worried.”

“You’re drenched with sweat, pale like a ghost and you have this glassy look in your eyes.”

“It’s hot.”

“You’re sweating more than me, dude. That’s not normal. Shut up, breath, and drink.”

Roger complied. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and drank some more of his energy drink. Eventually he opened his eyes, his expression very grim “I thought I was feeling better than that. I didn’t expect to be 100%, I haven’t even trained, but…God, we’ve been playing for what? 40 minutes? 45? All my fitness work gone straight to hell.”

Andy ruffled through his bag for a banana and handed it to Roger, who took it silently.

Andy tried to sound reassuring.“You still have time to rest till Australia, a bad food poisoning can take a lot out of a person. Your body trying to tell you that.”

Roger shook his head, somber. “No, I don’t really have time till Australia, but thanks for the effort to make me feel better.” He buried his face in his hands and sighed, then looked at Andy, a sheepish grimace on his face. "How easy did you go on me?"

Andy scratched his head. "Um, 'bout 80 percent. Sorry, Man. But you don't listen to anyone's advice but your own."

Roger’s expression darkened, and he thrust his chin forward, mouth tightening. “I do, then I do what I think is best. I don’t think I did so badly listening to my own advice the past few years.”

Andy blinked, then said carefully. “I don’t think there’s a man alive who would say that, least of all me.”

Roger sighed and waved it off apologetically. “Forget it. I’m just…just forget it.” He puffed his cheeks with a sigh, grabbed a towel and wiped his chest, while Andy did a conscious effort not to look at him, inwardly cursing himself for not keeping his distance. This was nice and friendly till about a second ago. Now it felt weird all over again.”

Roger misinterpreted Andy’s expression and touched his shoulder. “Seriously, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Andy shook himself. “That’s fine, no offense taken, but… you should maybe cut yourself some slack. Focus on getting better first. Not that I care, but you won't win Australia playing the way you did today anyway, use the few days you have to recover."

"I need practice.”

“You need rest more. This form won’t even win you a second round match, you haven't got a choice. But if you insist of running around sick, that’s just fine with me, I want to win this tournament too."

Roger pouted darkly, fiddling with the ball he held in his hands.

They fell into a comfortable silence, drinking from their water bottles. After a few

moments Roger glanced at Andy. "I didn't thank you properly for the other day."

Andy waved his hand. "Don't mention it." No Roger, really. DON'T mention it

"No, I got to say this. Thanks. I-I really felt like crap and I was in a lot of pain, I don't think I ever felt this bad in my life. Don't know what would have happened if you weren't there. I owe you one, big time."

Andy glanced up, unable to tear himself from Roger's earnest look. "Ah, I really hope I won't need a return of the favor." Fuck. He could feel his face growing hot as the scene in his hotel bedroom flashed before his eyes, Roger lying in his arms, sweaty and needy, the warmth of his, the feeling of the fine hair of his stomach underneath his hand. Oh Fuckfuckfuck. Now he was sure there was something wrong with him.

Roger' eyes searched his face curiously. "Why are you flushing?"

Andy rubbed at his face. "Nothing. I'm..happy you're okay, and that, you know, we're cool." We're cool? Oh Andy, you dumb fucker.

Roger studied him. "Um, *yes*." He frowned, looking ill at ease. "I was a bit out of it, but I seem to recall you urging me to get over myself, or something. So I did, which wasn't easy by the way – now *you're* acting strangely?"

Andy laughed in spite of himself. "Yeah, you looked like - on the verge of death, I was trying to be confident and reassuring."

Roger did not laugh. "Did I say or do anything embarrassing that I don’t remember? I was really out of it, I don't…"

"Well, you did tell me about your little Rafa woo-doo doll."

Roger snorted. "Ha-ha. Come on. Be straight with me."

Um, I find that a little hard at the moment.. Andy sighed. "Look, what I was trying to convey is that I'm glad it isn't awkward between us. Which apparently it wasn't until I decided to act awkward. I really am a brilliant guy that way."

Roger laughed. "It's okay. It *was* a little awkward, I have to say. I just…" He sighed, blowing air out, looking at his knees. "I was, you know, in a lot of pain so, um, yeah, I was just really grateful you did, you know - what you did. I was just a little, um, thrown you actually did. That."

He raised his eyes at Andy, looking sheepish, and both guys suddenly burst with laughter, mostly used an awkwardness reliever.

"Articulate, Rog."

Roger glanced around to make sure no one was there, then flipped him a finger.

Andy laughed, and slapped the man's shoulder. "Want to eat? You look like you lost weight, man."

Roger complemented. “I can eat. I’ll just tell Mirka, it's late, she's probably waiting for me. She, um, she sort of thinks I’m doing this media thing. She doesn’t know I went to practice.”

Andy raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t she handle your media? How could she not know?”

Roger shrugged. “I don’t know, she didn’t even blink when I told her where I was going.”

Andy rolled his eyes. “Did you ever consider that she didn’t argue with you so you could see for yourself that you’re not up for any serious practice right now?”

Roger stopped and considered. “Yeah, maybe. She could..it sounds like something she would do.” He sighed. “I’ve been driving her crazy about wanting to practice, she probably had enough of me being so difficult and stubborn.”

“Now that’s hard to imagine.” Andy deadpanned. “She knows you too well, I mean - why fight with you when you’re just going to do what you want, no matter what everyone else think?”

Roger managed a smile. “I’m not that difficult.”

“Yeah, right.”

Roger didn’t have time to reply to that, as the very deliberate cough behind him supplied the answer.

Both men turned to see Mirka standing at the gates. Andy glanced at Roger, he didn’t even know someone could look so guilty. The Swiss ran his hand through his hair said something apologetic sounding in Swiss German.

Mirka approached them, and studied Roger up and down, obviously taking in the sweaty and generally exhausted appearance. She then turned to Andy, speaking in English. “So," She quirked an inquisitive eyebrow toward him "how was the practice?”

Andy’s eyes shifted nervously from Mirka to Roger. “Um, okay. A good workout.”

 

Mirka rolled her eyes, it was obvious she didn’t believe him, but Andy noticed her eyes were soft as they rested on Roger, who looked up at her like a little scolded boy, even though she hasn’t said one critical word. “You're a bad liar, Andy. Practice sucked, I was horrible." He admitted, tossing the ball he was holding to the other side of the court, looking at his girlfriend defiantly. “Now say I told you so.”

Mirka ran a hand through his sweaty hair and smiled “Pointless, and… I'm sure you weren't horrible"

Andy shook his head. "He wasn't."

He wondered how much Roger had told her. He had the feeling Roger had no secrets from her, plus he received a text message from her a day after that day at the hotel. The text said 'thank you for looking out for him." So he assumed Roger had told her, and he had the distinct feeling that as awkward as it was, Roger treated the whole thing more naturally than him. Well, maybe that's because it didn't gave *him* the same raging hard-on it gave Andy.

He coughed and looked away. “Okay, I don’t know about you two, but I’m hungry. I played an extra set, I need my carbs, so I’ll – you know, be off.”

Roger frowned. “Wait a second, we said we'd eat..” He glanced at Mirka. “Are you hungry? Do you feel like Italian food?”

Mirka wrinkled her nose. "Lleyton mentioned this new Sushi place.”

Andy grinned. “Lleyton? Mirka, Tell me Hewitt didn't recommend that place Roger had that bad chicken in? We're in Australia, he'd make sure Roger would be served with Sushi that sat out for two days, in the baking sun."

Roger laughed. "Nah, he wouldn't. Still though, I don't want to eat anything raw right now. There's the greek place we went to last year? With the red tables, remember?"

Mirka nodded. "Sounds good." She looked at Andy. "Are you coming with us?"

Andy didn't know what to do. "Um, I don't know, I thought we'd just grab a bite at the player lounge. If you guys are going out I'm going to take a rain check, I think I have a date later."

Mirka raised an eyebrow. "Brooklyn is in Australia?"

"Um, not Brooklyn."

"Oh?"

Roger, annoyed, glared at his girlfriend. "Mirka! Leave him alone."

Andy waved his hand. "That's okay. I think that relationship is not going anywhere. She's travelling, I'm travelling. It's never quite to the same destination. Same old story."

Mirka looked at him sympathetically. "Sorry."

"It's fine. I got this date – only I don't have a clue what the girl's name is, I forgot to ask. I only have a phone number. Bummer."

Roger snorted inside his water bottle. "Dating fans now?"

Andy shrugged. "Marat." As if that explained everything.

Roger laughed as he pulled his shirt back on."Say no more, have fun."

"I intend to." Andy rose. "Okay, so I'm going to be off."

Roger got up as well, stretching his back and legs as he rose. "Yes, we need to go back to the hotel room as well before going to lunch." He clasped Andy's hand. "See you at the open. Thanks for practice and…the honest evaluation."

Andy grinned. "Any time, man.

Mirka smiled at Andy. "Bye Andy, it was good seeing you."

"You too, Mirka." He slung his bag on one shoulder. "Um, I suggest you let me go out first, there are tons of fans by the practice courts. If it's the three of us we'll be mobbed."

Roger nodded. "Good idea, thanks."

 

Andy went to listen outside the gates, took a peek outside and then snuck out while mixing with the crowd. It didn't last long, a crowd of eager kids and adults gathered up around him, all eyes on him. He started signing for the kids, then raised his eyes to see Roger and Mirka sneaking out of the gates almost uninterrupted. Ahhh, fuck. This wasn’t his imagination. He really was attracted to Roger. Oh fucking hell, fucking hell. This HAS to go away, it just simply has to. He made a vow to fuck that girl that night till there was smoke coming out of the bed sheets. Anything, to get that image of Roger out of his brain.


	3. Chapter 3

“So, did you have fun?” Roger had a way of sneaking up at him. The man seemed to be everywhere on the grounds. Courts, posters, locker-room. He was always around. Now Andy was at the player’s restaurant, and there Roger was again, the Swiss was now grinning down at him, like a a 6 years old with a notion to steal cookies from the pantry, or something. For fuck’s sake.  
“Have fun?” He looked up at Roger, frowning. “Have fun doing what?”  
Roger lowered his voice. “The Aussie fan Marat hooked you up. Your date, how did it go?”  
The food suddenly tasted bitter in Andy’s mouth. “You’re really interested?”  
Roger sat down next to him, easily. Like he didn’t have a care in the world, and stole a slice of apricot from Andy’s fruit plate without moment’s hesitation. “Yeah, I am, actually.” He laughed at Andy’s expression and pouted. “No one ever tell me anything, they think I’m an old married guy who doesn’t care about stuff like that.”  
Andy stuck his fork into a chicken with more force than he intended. “You sort of are, when are you going to marry her anyway?”  
Roger shrugged. “Oh. We’re not fussed. There’s no time to plan it. We’re as good as married anyway.” His knee bumped against Andy. “So?”  
“Well, I got some great head.” Andy deadpanned. Actually, that wasn’t true. At all. But Roger didn’t have to know it. He didn’t have to know that he set a date and then never fucking showed up. 

 

Roger spat out his apricot, choking, and now it was Andy’s turn to laugh. “I thought you wanted to know.”  
“Yeah.“ Roger said, breathlessly, still coughing a bit. “Whether you had a good time, I didn’t expect that intimate level of detail.” He wiped his mouth, then gave Andy a shrewd look. “I don’t know why, but somehow you don’t look like a guy who got any.“ He lowered his voice, which Andy found slightly amusing. “You look stressed out to me.”  
Andy’s wrinkled his nose. “Nothing can really relieve the stress of a day before a slam starts, I just hope the reward at the end would be worth the dry spell during.” He raised his glass of water toward Roger.  
Roger smirked and knocked his glass against his. “Want to toast to a final?”  
“Haha. Fuck you.”  
Roger laughed and drank, and then quirked a brow at him. “Wait. A dry spell? Don’t tell me you believe in this old wives tale about sex during tournaments?”  
Andy grimaced. “Yeah. I know it’s odd. But every coach I ever had supported that. Even Brad.”  
Roger snorted. “God, I’m glad all of my coaches were European or Aussies. No such nonsense there, unless hours before a match or something.”  
Andy cocked a brow. “So you get great head on your days off, then?”  
Roger’s smile faltered slightly as his eyes skimmed on Andy’s face. “Seriously?” He asked, not unkindly.  
Andy caught himself and flushed. “Yeah. Um. No. Sorry. Didn’t mean to ask that.”  
Roger’s expression softened. “I guess I deserved that, I asked you a bunch of stuff too. You’re gonna see her again?”  
Andy shrugged. “She’s Australian, it’s not workable, even if I had the patience for romance right now. One night thing is good enough.” He gave Roger the look-over. “You doing okay? You still look a bit off-color.”  
Roger grimaced. “So-So. Maybe it wasn’t food poisoning but some kind of virus. But I feel good enough to play, I - “

 

“You’re a piece of work, you know that?” Both men startled, as Andy swerved toward the voice., going a tad pale when he came face to face with Jessica, the girl he stood up to last night. She was in the player’s restaurant, how did she get in here? What the actual fuck?   
Roger glanced at him, then at the girl, who carried on angrily. “You didn’t have to call, I mean, I never expected you to actually call, but to call and make plans and then not show up? I never had a guy pull that kind of crap on me, is that a tennis player thing, or an American thing?! Anyway, it’s a shitty thing to do.”  
The ENTIRE place went quiet, people probably heard her going off on him on the Margaret Court arena, for fuck’s sake. “How did you get in here.” Andy mumbled. Completely mortified. “You’re not accredited.”  
The girl scowled at him. “I know people.”   
Andy’s mouth was like cotton. He didn’t dare to look at Roger, though he could feel his curious eyes on him. “Look, sorry for that. I worked hard at practice and fell asleep. I didn’t mean to be a douche.”  
The girl’s face did not soften. “So you wake up and don’t call? I went to the place, you know. I felt like an idiot. I waited there for 45 minutes!”  
“It was sort of my fault.” Roger interfered, giving the girl the sort of boyish dorky smile that charmed tough Vogue editors and Saudi Sheiks alike. “I made him play a full practice match with me after he already practiced. So, it’s on me, really.”   
The girl flushed beet red and Andy thought it was the first time she had registered Roger’s presence at all. She looked around, and realized most of the players and their crew were staring at the unfolding scene. “No excuse. It was a jerk move.” She finally said. “And you can go to hell.” She looked at Roger and said pointedly. “And you’re a better Tennis player than you are a liar.” Before storming out.  
The moment she was gone, Andy moved an anxious hand over his face, to the hoots and hollers of half the locker-room. “FUCK. What was she DOING in here? How did she get in?”  
“She must know someone.” Roger said cautiously. He waited for Andy’s eyes, but they were everywhere but on him, his brow furrowed. “What’s with the stupid lie that you hooked up with her? She’s a pretty girl, why did you stand her up?”  
There was nothing Andy could say to that. He felt his face heating up in a way they normally never did. He got up sharply. “I have to go.” He grabbed his bags and left, his face burning.  
Roger, astounded, watched him go. He was joined by Jimmy Connors a moment later. The older man, his face serious and annoyed, sat down. “What the fuck was that?” He asked Roger. “Who was that girl?”   
Roger decided to tread carefully with Jimmy. “Dunno. Some girl who thought he was interested and suffered a letdown. I think he’s still a bit raw about Brooklyn, to be honest. Was probably a bit too soon for him.”  
Jimmy groaned. “Great. That’s what he need to focus on this tournament. Women. That’s not why he’s here for. Goddammit.”  
Roger quirked a brow at him. “A bit much, from you, isn’t it? You’ve had your fair share. Andy works hard. He wants to win Slams as much as anyone. He knows what he’s doing. I don’t know why you ride him like that. He’s not 18 years old, don’t you think he’s too old for that kind of close handling?”  
Jimmy’s lips pursed. “Is he?” His voice dropped a notch. “Never, ever, in my life, did I sit with John Mcenroe or with Ivan Lendl at the Cafeteria and if one of them was throwing his guts out days before a Slam, I would not be inviting them to my room and handing them the Bepto Bismol, if you know what I mean. I like you plenty, Roger, but if I was in his shoes, I’d let you puke all over your shoes.”  
Roger snorted. “Thanks for that, man. Look, I just don’t agree with that. That’s not what the tour should be about. Andy doesn’t need to be a jerk to be winning matches.”  
Jimmy snorted. “Yeah? How’s that going for him? What’s working for you isn’t working for others, or you’d be a few slams short. Do me a favor, Roger. Leave the guy the fuck alone. Spare him your friendship, it’s not in his best interests. You want someone to hold your hair up, talk to your girlfriend.” He sauntered out, leaving Roger seething. 

\-------

 

“The man is insufferable.” Roger ranted to Mirka as they got to bed. “He was basically telling me to stay away from Andy because he’s too nice to me and it’s screwing up his tennis, or something like that. What are we, a couple of juniors?Who is he to tell me that? Honestly, remind me to never get a former world number 1 as a coach if that’s the sort of advice I’m going to hear.”  
Mirka laughed. “He’s Jimmy Connors, Rogi. He didn’t get along with anyone when he was on tour.” She stretched on the bed, as Roger watched as the strap of her nightgown slide of her shoulder. “But maybe he has a point.”  
Roger frowned at her. “Are you serious?”  
She shrugged. “If I’m Andy, I’m not hanging out with you during tennis tournaments and definitely not during Slams. Tennis players need competitive fire to win matches and Connors thinks he can’t get that if he’s friendly with you. It’s not like it doesn’t make sense.”  
Roger huffed. “We did not hang out, I sat next to him at lunch for Christ sake.”  
Mirka shrugged. “And you practiced together the other day, and he helped you when you were sick.”   
Something in voice caused Roger to study her carefully. “And you...disapprove?”  
She shrugged again, but he wasn’t fooled. “What?”  
“You should have called me when you were ill, that’s all.”  
Roger bit his lip to keep the smile concealed. “First of all. I DID call you. You were nowhere to be found. I was pretty much abandoned.” He sighed dramatically. “Left to suffer all by myself.”   
She hit him with the pillow. “Bastard.”  
He grabbed her legs and pulled her to his direction. “You’re actually jealous.” He observed, smirking, then nibbled slightly on her neck, not letting her squirm away. “Relax, he’s like completely and utterly straight.”   
To his surprise, the look she gave him was annoyed. “If so, that makes one of you.”  
He propped his head on his hand to look at her, still smirking but also a touch troubled.“I swear you’re worse about the guys then you are about the women. Tell me I don’t have to reassure you of anything, Mir, because that would really piss me off, firstly because I was dead sick through it all, and secondly because I never gave you a reason to be worried in my life.”  
She shrugged. “I know you haven’t. I’m just not crazy about the idea of him touching you.”’  
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me wish I haven’t told you that. I was in so much pain, he was just trying to help me out.” He frowned. “Believe me, there was nothing sexual about it. If anything, what was weird was actually the conversation we had today. Right before we practiced the other day he was talking about taking a phone number from this girl. I didn’t think much about it. When I met him today, I asked him how his date went. His reaction was “I got a great head.” I thought it was too much information, but whatever. Two seconds later, this girl shows up and confronts him in the middle of the player resteraunt, dunno how she got in. Anyway, apparently he stood her up, so why lie to me about something so stupid, like I care who’s giving him a blowjob? Do you make any sense in this?”  
Mirka frowned. “I guess locker-room talk? He’s not the first guy to be bragging.”  
Roger snorted. “About a blowjob? It’s not like I thought the man wasn’t getting any. It was a very weird conversation, apparently he practices abstinence during tournaments. He asked me whether you - “ He stopped himself at once, and reddened. Mirka lifted her head to fix her eyes on him. “He asked you whether I WHAT.”  
Roger flushed harder. “Shit. Look, I didn’t answer.”  
“Roger.”  
He sighed. “Don’t get mad. I don’t think he meant it seriously, he just asked whether I get, um, quality blow-jobs during tournaments.” At her expression, he quickly added. “I didn’t answer him! He took the question back! Don’t be like that!”  
Mirka glared a little, then flopped back on the bed. “And had you answered, what would you have said?” She tilted her head toward him with a small smirk.  
Roger groaned in despair. “Is there a good answer here?”  
She curled up against him, still with the small smile. “There could be, if you played your cards right.”  
His eyes opened wide, and his next breath came out a little heavier. His eyes searched her face. “Yeah?”  
‘Ah-hmmm.” Her hand, until then simply resting on his stomach, started stroking it slowly. ”Lets hear it.”  
He swallowed, watching fingers against the soft hairs on his belly. “Then I’d say that you’re amazing in everything you do.”  
She suppressed her laughter against his shoulder. “That’s a really classy answer.” Then she raised her head go look at him. “Tired?” She glanced at the clock. “It’s getting late. You’ve been sick lately.”  
He laughed tightly. “Seriously? No, not tired, I - oh.”  
He sighed softly as two of her fingers skirted against one of his nipples, then shivered and groaned when she flicked it slightly. First softly and then harder. He allowed himself to fall back against the covers as she mouthed slow kisses down the slope of his stomach. By the time she got to the trim of his boxer shorts, he was all the way hard and panting.  
“Hey, Mister. I want your eyes.”  
He already felt heated and out of focus. Still, he opened his eyes to look at her. Mirka pushed his boxers back just a little, then sucked directly on the head. His hips cantered up of it’s own violation. “Fuck!” He groaned hard, delving his hands in her hair, messing it up. “Goddd Mir.”  
He could see her smirking as she pushed his boxers all the way down. Satisfied he was looking, she took him entirely into her mouth, while softly rubbing at his thighs with her thumbs. He groaned loudly as she set a steady and satisfying pace, not teasing, just getting on with it.  
Every couple of seconds, she checked whether he was watching, rewarding him with a faster pace or more intense suction when she found his eyes hooded but still focused on her. His fingers were still in her hair, his knuckles twitchy, but he fought the urge to set pace, she was never too keen on that.  
However, when she started teasing his balls with her fingernails, he could feel the ending approaching quickly and sharply. Unable to keep his eyes open a second longer, he arched back, moaning, allowing himself to thrust a bit, knowing it was okay. When she took him to the hilt, it was over, the tingle started at his feet and traveled up before he exploded, actually crying out at the force of the sensation and panting as she didn’t move away during the convolutions, letting him go soft in her mouth.   
Moments later, he opened his eyes and waited for the world to focus, before reaching to pull her up to him, then flipped her so she was on her back. Her smile was mischievous and satisfied and he buried his face in her neck, inhaling and sighing all at the same time. “God. That was so good. I can’t get enough of you.”  
He reached out to her, but she grabbed his hand, entwining their fingers together. “Hmmm. Not today. Go to sleep.”  
He raised his head slightly to squint at her. “Really? Since when do you turn down recuperation?”  
“When it’s 11 PM and you have a match the next day.” She wrapped her legs against him and pulled him flush against her. “You’re exhausted, I can just tell you’re not well just yet. Let’s sleep.”  
He stared at her for a moment, unsure, then relented, the heavy fog of sleep was already claiming him. “Give me your mouth.” He mumbled. When she tilted her head to him, he kissed her sloppily, tasting himself on her tongue, then curled up against her.  
“Don’t be stupid about Andy.” He mumbled, snuggling closer. “Even if the guy was remotely interested, which he isn’t, you’re all that I want.”   
She smiled softly. “Next time, when he asks you that question. Just answer yes.”  
Roger’s chuckled softly, right before sleep claimed him.


End file.
